


Waiting

by notaliveenough



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 15:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8583916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notaliveenough/pseuds/notaliveenough
Summary: Angels don't walk among the living





	

**Author's Note:**

> sekai ruins my life on a daily basis so here I am to ruin yours. enjoy (:

A man heaves out a sigh, letting his head fall back harshly against the frustratingly white wall, unable to feel the pain that should have shot down his spine under other circumstances. As it is, he can’t feel a thing; he can’t remember the last time he felt something. He stares up at the just as white ceiling, tapping his foot in a rhythm he knows he should be able to hear but can’t. How long has he been stuck here?

He lets his eyes fall closed as he tries to remember for the millionth time what happened before he came to in this box of nothing. He remembers the heavy rain soaking through his clothes, remembers the long walk from a place he can’t recall to an unidentifiable destination. He remembers cold tiles beneath him, splattered with crimson. His blood? Had there been slashes on his wrists or a blade in his hand? He can’t remember.

These are the only things that come to him in the suffocating silence of his surroundings. He sits alone in one of the few fold out chairs that line the blinding walls with his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. He is the only splash of color this room has to offer. The tan of his skin and dark of his clothes offer a striking contrast to the bare walls. What did he look like? Did he have a name? Was he of any significance? He doesn’t know.

He lifts his head as foreign shadows are cast across the floor, eyes open wide in anticipation. Since he’s been here, everything has been completely still and quiet, never changing. This place holds no excitement of things unknown, and yet, here it is: a sign of something different. The man takes in a breath and feels something for the first time, something a little like relief, he thinks.

Another man enters the room and immediately steals all of his attention. This man is tall with broad shoulders and a skinny waist. The jeans he’s wearing accentuate his long, slender legs, and his black t-shirt fits snug against his strong chest. His skin is pale, his hair is blonde, but his eyes are dark and sleepy, and his lips are pink. For the first time he thinks he knows where he is. If someone like that can exist in this place, there’s nowhere else he could be but heaven. He knows now that the blood on the tiles had to be his. There isn’t a doubt in his mind that he handled a blade and took it to his wrists. Angels don’t walk among the living.

He watches in awe as the other occupant moves casually to the seat next to his. Whoever he was before now, whatever he’d done while he was living, he must have been a saint to receive a gift like this. The blonde crosses his legs elegantly, paying him absolutely no mind, and Jongin starts to feel something familiar. He feels his stomach flip and twist at the sight of the angel. He feels the aching need to speak, but how does he get his tongue to unknot? How does he string words together to form a coherent sentence? He can’t remember.

But he remembers the caress of long fingers against his cheek, remembers the way those fingers fit between his. He remembers tight heat and melodic moans, remembers the feel of skin on skin. He remembers an airport and a tight embrace. He remembers late nights spent video chatting, and phone calls that became shorter and shorter. He remembers a foreign name, one that didn’t exist on his side of the screen, one that shouldn’t have existed at all.

But he remembers the goodbye and the emptiness. He remembers the cold of loneliness, and he remembers the heavy rain soaking through his clothes on his way back from a final meeting to his chilled bathroom tiles splattered with his blood. He remembers the man sitting next to him and, finally, he remembers how to speak.

“Sehun-” and his voice cracks, thick with despair.  
.  
“Kim Jongin,” the man’s voice rings out over the room, cutting off whatever else Jongin might have said to the only person he has ever loved, the man he gave his life to. Sehun stands and holds his hand out to Jongin. “It’s time.”

Jongin takes Sehun’s hand in his, expecting the familiar chill that always came with him. Instead his hand is engulfed in flames traveling up his arm and around his body, and Jongin’s vocal cords are working just fine releasing a blood curdling scream. The floor gives way to inferno, and Jongin realizes in terror how wrong he was.

This was hell, and his reaper came with the visage of a former lover, the last face on his mind as he took his final breaths. Hadn’t he been hurt enough? He supposes not.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos always appreciated.


End file.
